


At the Salon

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: M/M, No Seriously It's Just Fucking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, the lease never said anything about not fucking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Salon

**Author's Note:**

> I got the tiniest little prompt on tumblr (bingoricopimento.tumblr.com/ask) and didn't mean to write a whole scene out of it but, y'know, yadda yadda, here we are. You could PROBABLY say this is a follow up to "An Open Door" if you squint really hard. I mean, it's not NOT a follow up.

He hadn’t needed to be told twice to put that fast-talking mouth of his to better use. Honestly, Jimmy had just been waiting for an excuse to get Nacho’s pants off again — because the only time he seems to gain footing in this whole power play is when he’s on his (admittedly bad) knees. 

Not that he minds, of course. He never minds showing off this particular skill set as long as the person on the receiving end is worthy of the attention. And Nacho is  _ more _ than worthy. 

Less is more when it comes to Nacho’s reactions — and in the dim light as Jimmy builds a rhythm stroking with his mouth, tongue, and hands, he appreciates the way that Nacho’s breath hitches. Nacho takes long, measured breaths through his nose for a moment before Jimmy swallowing around his cock is too much. Finally his mouth falls open and he sucks a shuddering, abrupt breath. 

A warm hand finds its way to the back of Jimmy’s head, stroking through his hair before applying firm pressure at the base of his skull. Nacho’s other hand is gripping the cheap desk he’s leaning back on. The sight of that hand tight on the lip of the wood and the faster cadence of Nacho’s breaths tells Jimmy as much as he’d normally glean from a lover babbling out his name or screaming themselves hoarse through an orgasm. 

_ God, why do I get hung up on the quiet ones? _ he thinks, spurred on and taking Nacho so deep that he can’t suppress a gag. He doesn’t pull off, though, letting his throat spasm around the man’s cock even as his eyes water. The hand at the base of his skull goes tight, and suddenly Nacho is backing away.

“Get up,” he says, sharp and clipped.

Jimmy looks up at him, panicked, and he’s already got his hands working in the air. Had he done something something wrong?

“Did I --” 

“ _ Get up, _ ” he says in a way that tells Jimmy he doesn’t appreciate being made to repeat himself. 

He starts to get shakily to his feet, and halfway up, Nacho has him by the front of the shirt. He guides Jimmy into an unexpected kiss — and as he opens his lips and goes pliant, Nacho walks them around until their positions are switched, Jimmy backed up against his own desk. 

When they break, Nacho fixes him with a serious look.

“Can I fuck you, Jimmy?” 

It’s almost sweet in a way and Jimmy doesn’t know what to say. Because  _ of course _ he can fuck Jimmy — was that not what he’d been aiming for over the past, what,  _ weeks? _ He really must be rusty on the desperately-communicating-he’d-like-to-be-fucked game that he had so expertly honed over the years, because honestly — 

Nacho’s expression goes hard and he raises an eyebrow in a sharp movement. Jimmy realizes he hasn’t said anything.

“Y-- yeah!” he says, stupidly. “I mean — yeah, you, of course, yeah, yes --” 

Nacho snorts and closes his eyes. Ah yes: the expression that every human being who fucked Jimmy eventually landed upon. The one that communicates, “I can’t even believe myself.” Seeing it on Nacho’s face is like coming home.

He steps back and Nacho drops the front of his shirt. Jimmy maneuvers around him to the other side of the desk, banging a hip into the desk and then the file cabinet before he can finally reach the drawers. He bends at the waist to rummage through the far drawer, finally producing a bottle of lube from the disorganized fray of staplers and junk mail and long-dry ballpoint pens. 

He moves to stand, but Nacho is behind him, blocking him into the little space. He reaches a hand around Jimmy’s body, motioning for the lube even as he’s fitting his hips up against Jimmy’s ass, grinding his cock against him through his nicest pair of slacks. He presses the bottle into Nacho’s hands and makes quick work of his belt, shucking his boxers and pants over his hips in one movement and then stepping out of both the garments and his shoes. He’s fumbling, trying to get a toe hooked into the seam of a dress sock to get that off, too, when Nacho grabs him by the waist and presses a hot kiss in the center of the back of his neck. 

Jimmy groans — and no, he could never even compete in the silence game with Nacho, so why bother? He goes still as Nacho steadies him and continues to kiss against the skin just above his collar. The manic energy he’d worked up begins to drain out of him as he steadies himself against the edge of the desk, relaxing under Nacho’s hands and his mouth. By the time he’s finally drawing long breaths, Nacho has slicked his hand. He traces slow circles with the pad of his finger against Jimmy before pressing in — and  _ God _ was Jimmy ever ready for that. It’s all he can do not to rut back against his hand. 

Nacho makes a small noise of approval — not quite a hum, but still,  _ a noise _ , and something about it makes Jimmy’s cock bob against nothing. 

He fucks Jimmy open with his hand deliberately in a way that usually only comes with a dozen encounters — as if Nacho’s got a sixth sense for how much he’s able to take and when to add another digit and what to do with it. Jimmy doesn’t waste time trying to stay quiet. He’s already lost track of his own sounds as he rocks his hips, inviting Nacho to build a rhythm. 

He could get off just like this, he realizes, biting down moans loud enough to make the ladies on the other side of the wall frown as Nacho finger-fucks him up against his cheap desk. But just as the thought crosses his mind, Nacho is stepping back, removing his hand. There’s the distinct click of the lube bottle being flicked open again, and when Jimmy twists at the waist to assess the goings on behind him, he’s treated to the sight of Nacho, serene with eyes closed lightly and mouth open as he twists a slicked hand down the length of his cock. 

That’s a sight he doesn’t imagine he’ll get tired of any time soon.

His eyes flutter open and he catches Jimmy staring. His face must show his unfounded embarrassment — because he feels like he’s just been caught peeping or something — and Nacho flashes him a crooked grin before stepping forward, lining himself up. 

Nacho takes his time with the first stroke, and Jimmy is thankful for the thorough prep. He’d almost forgotten to listen to Nacho’s breathing, but the quiet sound gets all of his attention now as the man behind him exhales a long, shuddering breath. He works his hips shallow and slow for a few strokes before finally sinking forward until his hips fit against Jimmy’s ass. It’s Jimmy’s turn to sigh, the last little fizzle of manic nervousness dissolving out of his chest at the sensation of being stretched and filled and taken care of. 

For someone who walks around looking and acting like he’s coiled tight as an industrial metal spring, Nacho is shockingly slow and gentle — ghosting his palms up Jimmy’s sides, pressing his shirt up so that he can stroke the skin on his back. The languid rhythm feels incredible but somehow ramps up Jimmy’s need for more, his cock aching for attention as he steadies himself against the desk.

“Come on,” he prompts weakly, half afraid that Nacho will deny his request just out of principal. 

In the end, Nacho isn’t a cruel man, though, because at Jimmy’s urging, he grabs his waist and starts to fuck Jimmy faster, making use of every inch at his disposal as he lays long strokes into the body beneath his.

“Better?” he asks, punctuating the question with a grind against Jimmy’s ass, alternately pushing his hips up against Jimmy and pulling Jimmy’s hips back to meet him.

“ _ Jesus _ , Nacho,” is the wittiest thing he’s able to conjure up because  _ yes, Christ, this is better, this is the best _ . He’d be more articulate, maybe, if every breath he took wasn’t punctuated by a low, desperate moan that’s all air and bass. 

Nacho is making more noise now, too, and it’s astounding: little sighs and huffs of exertion that sound almost outraged. Jimmy’s feet — still in socks — begin to slip out from under them against the linoleum floor, and just as he begins to panic and scrabble for purchase against the desk, Nacho falls forward, looping an arm in front of Jimmy’s body at the waist and propping himself with his other arm against the desk.

He pulls Jimmy tight to the front of his body, hitching him up so that he’s balanced again even as he fucks into him in movements made shorter and more staccato by the closer proximity of their bodies. He’d known Nacho was strong but the way he’s able to just _handle_ Jimmy is absurd. It feels like he could bench press Jimmy, no problem, no questions asked. The lengths of their bodies are pressed against each other and he feels Nacho’s sharp breaths on the sensitive shell of his ear. 

He’s throbbing hard now — as if he could  _ get _ any harder — because he can feel all of the muscles in Nacho’s torso working against his back, can feel the vice grip of the arm across the front of his body as he pulls Jimmy and grinds into him. They’re both reduced to helpless bodies, now, lost in the pleasure of it. 

And to Jimmy’s astonishment, Nacho lets out the smallest  _ whine _ at the tail end of a breath — and the realization that he’s getting off on this just as hard as Jimmy is has him gasping. 

“Fuck, Nacho, please — “ he says. If someone doesn’t touch his cock soon, he’s going to have one of those desperate, weird understimulated orgasms just from the pleasure of being fucked so thoroughly — and those always leave him shaking and strangely embarrassed and not quite satisfied.

Nacho’s arm goes loose around his middle and Jimmy postures up on the desk, taking more of their combined weight on arms that were already overtaxed from the start. He takes Jimmy’s cock by the base and begins to stroke him, swiping the pad of his thumb to smear precum over him as Jimmy groans in relief. 

Nacho’s palm is more tacky than slick now, but Jimmy doesn’t care: the heavens have opened up, there are beams of perfect sunlight shining down on them, there’s a chorus of angels singing out praises for the fact that he’s finally _finally_ getting jerked off. 

“I’m close,” Nacho warns him, his voice raw and ragged and dragging Jimmy abruptly back to earth. 

“Jesus — by all means, go for the gold here, keep swingin’ for those fences,” Jimmy babbles, and Nacho breathes a silent laugh into the back of his neck. The twisting strokes of Nacho’s palm around his hard-on slow to match the deep thrusts he’s sinking into Jimmy’s ass — and now that the seal is broken on his babbling, Jimmy is letting loose a steady stream of “oh god,” and “fuck,” and “ _fuck_ Nacho,” that’s probably audible from the other side of the wall but, shit, Jimmy pays his rent on time and in full and it’s _his_ office-slash-crash pad, goddamn it, and he’ll get thoroughly and perfectly fucked within its thin four walls whenever he has the luck. He has _rights._

“Fuck,” Nacho whispers — and the rhythm of his hips stutter and everything is happening at once: pleasure unfurling as Jimmy cums against the side of his desk and his own muscles go shaky as the orgasm radiates outward, the always odd but never unwelcome sensation of the cock in his ass throbbing through Nacho’s orgasm and that final tight pressure of being filled, and last but certainly not least, the sharp pain that slowly drains to a burn where Nacho has sunk his  _ teeth _ into the spot of Jimmy’s skin where neck meets shoulder as Nacho muffles three moans that match the timing of his last strokes into Jimmy.

Together, their bodies sag against the desk, muscles spent and chests heaving. Nacho lays a soft, long kiss against the skin he’d just assaulted, and Jimmy decides he will be the bigger man here and accept that as an apology and move on. Jimmy starts to slip against the linoleum again, and Nacho’s arm is back, holding him across the waist (and probably, he realizes, smearing his own cum on a shirt he’d  _ just _ gotten dry cleaned — but oh fucking well, he won’t complain at this point). 

They disengage, Nacho bumping immediately into the file cabinet behind him with a crash that has him frowning and Jimmy grinning. 

“This fucking  _ place _ ,” Nacho says, shaking his head. 

“Home sweet home.” 

Jimmy steps past him, naked from the waist down except for the socks, and cracks the door. He looks both ways to verify the coast is clear before shooting out an arm and snatching two hand towels from the salon’s pile of clean laundry. When he lobs one at Nacho, the other man rolls his eyes.

They wipe down and tuck back in and Jimmy silently vows to survey the supply closet once Nacho leaves so he can clean the poor desk up on the off chance that another client shows up. 

Nacho looks more sated than usual, propped back against the desk where they’d started, lashes long and expression neutral as he sighs and assesses him. 

_ I still don’t understand this, _ the look says. _At all._

Jimmy takes the few steps needed to close the distance between them and catches him with a look in return.  _ You liked it, _ Jimmy thinks hard at him. Nacho’s poker face breaks ever so slightly into a grin, and Jimmy kisses him — chaste and quick. 

“We should, y’know,” Jimmy ventures, hitching a shoulder and fanning his hands in the air. “Do that again. Any time. All the time?” 

“Not here,” Nacho says.

Jimmy raises a cautioning finger.

“ _ Not _ the van.” 

“Not the van,” Nacho agrees. “But we’ll find somewhere better than the salon.” 

 


End file.
